


The One Who Got Away

by blakunicorn



Category: Golden Girls, The Golden Girls
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Friendship, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:29:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakunicorn/pseuds/blakunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blanche grows tired of waiting for Dorothy to call her after she gets married.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Faraona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faraona/gifts), [Fymz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fymz/gifts).



It was downright irresponsible is what it was! Dorothy had been gone for three whole days and hadn’t once called to check on her mother.

Blanche knew she hadn’t called because she’d been listening for the phone. How many times had she sat at this kitchen table or washed her hands at the sink, waiting for the phone to ring? So far the only people to call had been Mel Bushman and Rose’s boyfriend Miles.

Didn’t Dorothy know that Sophia could get into mischief without her constant supervision? The old woman was positively mutinous. Dorothy should have been calling two and three times a day for status reports.

Blanche sipped her lemon tea and considered her options.

She should call Dorothy. Call her right this very second and scold her for being so remiss in her duties as a daughter. Didn’t she remember the last time she’d left Sophia with Blanche? Sophia had snuck away to Sicily to reconnect with an old flame. Blanche had been forced to travel by donkey—a donkey!—to track her down.

The things she did for her bookworm of a friend! And Dorothy didn’t appreciate it. Couldn’t even be bothered to call and let her old roommates know that she and her new husband had made it to Atlanta.

Of course Dorothy and Lucas were probably still on their honeymoon. They were probably occupied with travel arrangements and hotel accommodations and swapping cloyingly sweet nothings like two lovesick kids; but how hard was it _really_ to pick up a phone? To say: _Blanche, I just called to hear your voice_ OR _Blanche, I called because I miss you terribly._

Not that Blanche needed Dorothy to miss _her_. But surely she missed Sophia and Rose? Missed Rose’s ridiculous St Olaf stories? Missed Sophia’s tough love? So why hadn’t Dorothy called to tell them so?

It was just like Dorothy to meet a man and completely forget about her friends. Well…that wasn’t like Dorothy at all. _Blanche_ was the one who’d been accused of such capriciousness in the past. But _surely_ it was Dorothy who was guilty of it now.

Blanche pursed her lips thoughtfully. She should call and confront Dorothy about that. Point out that _she_ , Blanche Devereaux, was the one being the loyal friend these days, and _she_ , Dorothy Zbornak (newly Dorothy Hollingsworth) was being the flighty one. Oh, that would aggravate Dorothy to the high heavens!

Blanche giggled into her teacup, thinking about how upset Dorothy would get if she needled her so. Dorothy was typically as cool as they come, but if a person knew how to push her buttons, why, the slender woman would positively explode! Dorothy had a passionate side that stood at odds with her quiet demeanor and muted wardrobe. She was an exciting mix of spice and sweet that kept her friendship with Blanche interesting for all these years. And now she was gone.

Blanche put down her teacup. Stared daggers at the telephone.

Why didn’t Dorothy call to see how she…that is _Sophia_ …was doing?

She’d been married once before. Surely a marriage to a new beau wasn’t _that_ distracting?

 _I’ll just leave a message,_ Blanche thought to herself. _Nothing too long or detailed. I’ll just call and let her know that Sophia is safe and well-behaved._ _Well…mostly well-behaved._ (Sophia _had_ toilet-papered the Weston’s house the other night, but Dorothy would have to call to get that bit of information).

Blanche rehearsed what she’d say to Dorothy and Lucas’ voicemail, but when the automated voice came on, she hung up.

Why should she be calling Dorothy anyway? Dorothy hadn’t bothered to call _her_. Apparently Dorothy had adopted the mindset of “out of sight, out of mind.” Well she could do that too.

Blanche sashayed to the refrigerator to peruse her dinner options. She was on her own tonight. Rose was out to dinner with Miles, and Sophia had a bingo tournament at the senior center. Usually on dateless nights like these, introverted Dorothy would be here splitting a pizza with her or co-preparing a meal. They’d be giggling and swapping stories as they enjoyed a quiet evening alone. Sometimes it had felt like a date in itself, those peaceful evenings with just the two of them. But the faithful homebody just _had_ to go and get married.

Who married someone after only knowing them a couple of days? Sure people married quickly in the South, but the heat and humidity made southerners clamor for love. Dorothy had no such excuse. She was a Yankee!

Blanche slammed the refrigerator door closed. There was nothing appetizing there. She spun around and surveyed her empty kitchen. There was nothing appetizing here at all.

Why didn’t the phone ring?

She waited a minute. Two. But the phone didn’t make a sound.

But there _was_ a knock at the door.

Ooh wee, if that was the neighbor demanding she pay for his roof repair again, she’d let him have it! Sure Sophia threw a dozen rolls of toilet paper on his roof, but how much damage could tissue really do?

The knocks intensified as she passed through the kitchen doorway. And he was banging on her door too? Oooh! She was more steamed than a salamander on a country road in Louisiana!

She wrenched open her front door to give her neighbor a good talking to. But it wasn’t the neighbor.

_Hi, it’s me Stan._

_Stan, what in God’s name are you doing here this time of night?_

_I was on this side of town scouting a property for my new business venture. Did I tell you I was going back into the novelty business? Plastic vomit. It’s all the rage in Uzbekistan._

_If you did Stan, I wasn’t listening._

_Well, I am. I said to myself, ‘Stan, sure you made a cool million off the Sporn-ey, but isn’t two million better than one?’_

He gave her a toothy grin and Blanche frowned. He’d been here five seconds and he was already beginning to irritate her. And if he stood too long on her front porch, people would think he was a gentleman caller. Her reputation would never recover.

_Get to the point Stan._

_Well, I got a steal on the property, so I figured I’d celebrate with my best gals._

_Rose is on a date. Sophia’s out. And I haven’t been a gal since my Spring cotillion._

_Come on Blanche. Just one drink?_ He made his usual hangdog expression. The one that Dorothy could never seem to resist even after 38 years of marriage. _I’ll pay._

Blanched laughed. _As if_ I _would. But I can’t Stan. I’m expecting an important phone call._

 _Oh! I see. A little, va-va-voom, huh?_ He gave her a knowing wink.

_Goodbye Stan._

She went to close the door on him but he flapped his hands animatedly to make her stop.

_What Stan?_

_You hear from Dorothy?_

He gripped the side of the door and his eyes went wide and expectant in a way that made Blanche feel sorry for him. She pulled the door open again.

 _I’ve heard from her_ , she lied. _She’s doing fine_. _Happy as a Baptist preacher on Sunday._

_That’s a handsome fellow she married. Lucas, right? I bet she feels like she upgraded from old Stanley Zbornak._

He laughed cheerlessly at his self-deprecation. Blanche decided not to contribute to his misery and remained silent. She pulled her nightgown around her. Let the soft material soothe her addled nerves.  

Stan rocked back and forth on the pads of his feet. His fingers drummed a discordant staccato against his pant legs. The lanky man had always possessed an exasperating amount of nervous energy. Blanche had never understood how someone as composed as Dorothy tolerated it for so long.

As she studied the nervous twitch of his hands and feet, Blanche realized something. Stan was dressed in blue jeans and a hideously floral shirt. Not exactly the attire one would wear to a business meeting.

She exhaled quietly as she had a revelation. Stan hadn’t been out looking at property. He’d probably driven directly here. The man had grown accustomed to coming to this residence; to knocking on the door and finding Dorothy. He was having difficulty breaking the habit.

Blanche put perfectly manicured fingers to her temple and massaged in tiny circles. To think that she and Stanley Zbornak had something in common…

 _Goodness_ , she thought to herself. _Dorothy has ruined us both_.

But a Devereaux wasn’t one to abide a broken heart. She could admit now that that’s what it was. She was broken-hearted. Dorothy’s departure had devastated her. No, _was_ devastating her. Present tense.

But she’d be damned if she became Stanley Zbornak, a man realizing too late that he’d lost his very best thing.

She was a Devereaux. She had more sense than Stan. More pride. And a far better wardrobe. When Blanche Devereaux set her mind to something, she got results.

She beckoned Stan into the house. _Come in Stan. Give me a second to get dressed and we can get that drink._

Stanley looked so jubilant at her offer that Blanche was filled with an unfamiliar emotion. _Empathy_. It seemed Dorothy continued to make an impression on her.

Stanley flopped onto the settee and began to ramble on about the restaurant he would take her to; how delicious the drinks would be; how he had a coupon for appetizers.

Blanche let him talk as she swanned back into the kitchen. There was something she needed to do before her impromptu night out.

She picked up the phone and dialed. Waited for the automated voice. This time she left a message:

 _Dorothy? It’s me Blanche. I need to talk to you. Don’t worry, Sophia’s not in trouble. No more than usual anyway._ Blanche chuckled. Her honey-flecked accent seemed to float through a kitchen so achingly bereft of one important figure. _There’s something I need to tell you. So_ much _I need to tell you. Please call as soon as you can._

Blanche cradled the receiver.

There was a time before when she’d let a beloved get away, and she’d regretted it. But she was ~~older~~ more beautiful and wiser. And Devereauxs did not let go without a fight.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorothy gets Blanche's message. An intense phone call ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Faraona who encouraged me to add another chapter to this story. This fic was going to be a one-shot but your comments made me dig a bit deeper. Hope you enjoy. :)

 

Dorothy strolled into the sprawling colonial style home and closed the door behind her. She sighed heavily. It would take some time getting used to entering this place, considering it home. It was so different from the quaint little house in Miami that she used to share with friends. Lucas’s home was grandiose, a bit ostentatious, and disarmingly quiet. There was the occasional footfall of a day worker or the butler, Weems, moving about; but no laughter, no invitations, no voices at all to interrupt the stillness.

Dorothy turned her gaze to the ornate front door. The heavy door was wrought iron with decorative glass and an intricate architectural style that was beautiful to look at but completely superfluous. There was no deep impression in its surface like with the front door in her old Miami home. That curious stain that stood out against the honeyed wood and looked like an upside down exclamation mark.

Dorothy reached out and touched one of the metal blossoms adorning her new door. The imitation flower was cold to the touch and her fingertips trembled at the impersonal steel. Why did it seem as if she spent her days missing the most inconsequential things? Today she found herself mourning her old front door. Yesterday she’d spent half an hour glaring at Lucas’ living room sofa ( _It’s a chaise, madam_ , Weems had said. _French antique_ ) and wishing it were wicker.

She was beginning to think she’d rushed things, marrying Lucas so quickly after only knowing him a few days. Yes, Lucas was charming and sweet and had managed to bewitch her after only a handful of conversations; but it took more than charm and stimulating banter to sustain a marriage.

She and Lucas had been married for seven days and she’d spent most of that time missing her mother; missing her friends; and wondering if a new roommate had moved in and redecorated her old room.

It didn’t seem normal to her—to be so fixated on a front door or a fainting couch when she had a new husband to focus on; a veritable mansion to explore; an influx of monies and trifles to enjoy. All of this new space and quiet and romance, and yet she felt so disconsolate. She felt unsatisfied.

Dorothy moved to the couch in question; sank onto the plush cushions and tried to get comfortable. Perhaps her moodiness had to do with her lack of productivity. She was accustomed to having a job back home; to going out during the day to teach her classes and coming home to tend to her mother and help untangle whatever inanity Blanche and Rose found themselves in.

Here at the Hollingsworth Manor, nothing was required of her. Lucas’s wealth meant she didn’t have to work; and there were so many housekeepers and gardeners and other staff about that she couldn’t touch a broom without someone snatching it away from her and apologizing for their negligence. She didn’t think she could get used to it: being waited on hand and foot, the mind-numbing idleness, the hovering uniformed workers.  

She was from Brooklyn; had had to scrape and scrap to get by; born of poor, immigrant parents; accustomed to a fixed income. Being the wife of a millionaire ( _the_ _lady of the house_ , Weems would intone) would take some getting used to.

Dorothy scratched at a phantom itch on her leg. Wondered if there were enough days in a calendar year to overcome this mishmash of emotion.

 _I’m an old fool_ , she thought derisively. _For the first time in my life_ , _I have someone who is crazy about me, Dorothy Zbornak. Who thinks I’m smart and beautiful and wants to give me the world. And I all I can do is complain about the furniture._

She shook her head at her own negative thinking and reached over to check the answering machine. She needed a distraction from her somberness. And she and Lucas had only just gotten back from their honeymoon yesterday. She was sure they had messages piling up.

The first few were for Lucas, about business. Dorothy saved those. Made a mental note to tell Lucas when he got home from work. But the next messages were from her old roommates.

The first:

_Dorothy? Hi, it’s me. Rose Nylund. You know my last name already but I wanted to specify just in case you and Lucas have other Roses calling._

Dorothy shook her head gingerly, already amused.

_I’m calling about something very important. I don’t want to alarm you, but…You know our next door neighbor? Mr. Travers? I think he’s a serial killer!_

Dorothy could almost see Rose clutching the telephone; her expressive blue eyes wide and horrified; her mouth moving a mile a minute.

_I was looking out my bedroom window the other night. You know my favorite tree is out there. The one I named Syca-Maury? Well, I was saying goodnight to Syca-Maury like I always do, when I noticed Mr. Travers carrying a large bag out to his car. Whatever he had in that bag looked heavy and he put it in the trunk! I think it was a body!_

Rose paused and took successive deep breaths. Her trepidation was evident even through the answering machine.

_I told Blanche and Sophia about what I saw, but Blanche told me I must have imagined it and Sophia said my hair dye had finally fried my brain. But I know what I saw, Dorothy! He’s a serial killer. I would call the police but you know they won’t accept my calls ever since I made the report about that UFO._

Dorothy pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled noisily. She’d forgotten about that incident. They’d been shopping at the local Sack-N-Save and Rose had sworn she’d seen a UFO spacecraft. One frantic call and four police cruisers later, the flying object had turned out to be a promotional blimp the store was using to advertise a summer sale. The police officers had not been amused.

_I decided to call you because I knew you would believe me. We have to do something Dorothy! Before he wipes out the entire neighborhood! Call me as soon as you get this message. I currently have that dastardly evildoer under surveillance and will be hiding out in Syca-Maury with a set of binoculars until I hear from you. Rose out._

Dorothy saved the message. It was high time she started keeping evidence of Rose’s peculiarities. Lord knew one day she’d be called to testify on Rose’s behalf.

The second message:

_Dorothy, it’s Sophia. Your mother. You know…the woman who carried you for nine months? Who endured twenty-seven hours of labor and never quite recovered her girlish figure?_

Dorothy pursed her lips, crossed her legs, and waited for the avalanche.

_I’m all for you moving up the evolutionary ladder when it comes to matrimony, but you left me here to deal with a woman who keeps a trampoline next to her bed and a blonde moppet who still believes in the tooth fairy._

There was a break in the message and Dorothy could hear loud rustling in the background and frantic talking.

_The blonde moppet just fell out of a tree. I’m telling you, it’s a complete circus here and I’m expected to be the ringmaster. I’ve always been good at leadership, but hey, I’m 82 and to be honest, I don’t give a rat’s._

Dorothy couldn’t help but chuckle. She missed her mother’s twisted sense of humor.

_But anyway, I’m just letting you know that I’m holding down the fort. I’m keeping my nose clean and everything. If Greg Weston calls and claims I toilet papered his house, don’t believe him. He drinks Stoli and not the good kind. I love ya. Tell your rich husband the address is 2375 Jackson Way. I wear a size two and I’m partial to opals._

The line disconnected. Dorothy saved the message.

_The third message:_

_Dorothy? It’s Rose again. Rose Nylund? Well, it turns out the bag Mr. Travers was carrying was his luggage. He was on his way to the airport and had packed a really large overnight bag. I found that out when...well…he caught me riffling through his trunk._

Dorothy’s eyes fluttered closed. She loved Rose but the woman was madcap. Or just plain mad.

_He was a good sport about the whole thing. I mean…he seem pretty offended when I accused him of being a serial killer. And he’s planning to file a restraining order, but I waved at him the other day and he waved back... I think it was a wave. He raised his finger anyway…I just wanted to call and let you know that I solved the case._

Rose giggled in that school girl way of hers. The pleasant tinkling made Dorothy smile.

_I think I’m pretty good at this inspector thing. I’ve always been fascinated by mysteries and who-done-its. Even when I was a little girl. Did I ever tell you about the time I figured out who murdered St Olaf’s longest wedded couple? Their names were Frank and Marge. A lovely couple. Had been together for thirty-four years. Frank and Marge were turtles of course, but they were beautiful together. It was something else, watching them stroll, hand in hand, down Main Street. Although I guess it would be feet in feet since turtles don’t have hands. So anyway…it was quite a scandal in St Olaf.  Someone **murdered** Frank and Marge and the only clue left behind was a single marshmallow..._

A half hour later, Dorothy got to the final message:

_Dorothy? It’s me Blanche. I need to talk to you. Don’t worry, Sophia’s not in trouble. No more than usual anyway._

Blanche laughed then and Dorothy unconsciously moved closer to the answering machine to better hear the pleasant sound.  Blanches always had the most invigorating laugh. A rich baritone that did nothing to hide her merriment. Her laughter was like a sudden rain shower; a fresh bouquet of lilies; the sweetest, stickiest candy treat.

 _There’s something I need to tell you. So_ much _I need to tell you. Please call as soon as you can._

There was something different about Blanche’s voice. Dorothy couldn’t put her finger on it. But there seemed to be an anxiousness about her friend that was unusual in someone so self-assured and devil-may-care.

Dorothy reached for the porcelain phone. Dialed a number that she’d memorized years ago.

It picked up after the second ring.

_Hello?_

_Blanche? I’m surprised it’s you who answered. You’re usually out on a date on Saturday nights. Or at the Rusty Anchor._

Blanche laughed softly. Dorothy pressed the phone closer to her ear. That laugh was like wind chimes; a summer breeze; a siren song.

_No, no dates tonight Dorothy. When you’re as popular as I am, you have to rest your feet sometime. My feet are so dainty after all._

Dorothy laughed. _Some things never change._

_Oh, but some things do._

There was that inflection again. It was almost as if Blanche were sad. But what could the dazzling brunette be upset about? Like she said herself, she was popular, highly sought after, and seldom did she feel the pangs of acute loneliness that had bedeviled Dorothy for so many years.

_I got your message. You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about?_

_Well, yes. But first things first. How’s married life treating you? Did you enjoy your honeymoon?_

There was a pregnant pause. Blanche seemed almost _expectant_.

 _The honeymoon was lovely. We went to Barbados and I got sand in places I didn’t even know I had._ Both women chuckled. _Lucas is a wonderful man. But of course you know that. He is your uncle._

_Yes, he is._

Blanche’s voice dipped again and Dorothy could hear her friend sigh heavily.

_Blanche, what’s wrong?_

_Who said there’s anything wrong?_

Dorothy narrowed her eyes at the phone as if it were Blanche she was looking at. _I know you Blanche. Whenever something’s bothering you, you speak in short sentences and you sigh on every period._

_Dorothy, must you be an English teacher even during a phone call?_

_Tell me Blanche._ Despite the directive, Dorothy’s tone was soft. Patient.

Blanche hummed another breathless exhale into the phone (acquiescing) and Dorothy felt her eyes flutter.

_You know, I had dinner with Stan the other night._

_You did?_

_Yes. He came by dressed in the most ridiculous shirt/pants combination, asking about you. I guess I sort of felt sorry for him. We went to the Matador Room and paid a fortune for stone crab._

_You actually got Stanley to spend more than ten dollars on a meal?_

_I gave him an ultimatum. He could either use the American Express and pay for dinner at a restaurant that used table cloths or he and his Hawaii Five-O outfit could enjoy a bargain meal on his own._

Dorothy laughed. _My ultimatums never worked with Stanley._ _The man personifies cheap. He_ _reuses coffee filters._

_That’s because you’re too nice Dorothy. You put up with too much foolishness from the men you date. The spendthrifts. The philanderers. The stylistically challenged._

_Yes, but this time I’ve struck gold. I think I’ve found the perfect man._ Dorothy’s voice was whimsical. Contemplative.

_So Uncle Lucas is the one, huh?_

_The one?_ Dorothy sighed. A breath that was tremulous and floated conspicuously between them. _I don’t subscribe to such juvenile ideas anymore. The **one** …soul mates…those fancies sounded appealing when we younger. But we’re not girls anymore, Blanche. _

_‘Though I still look like a girl,_ Blanche quickly interrupted _._

Dorothy let her friend have her delusion. She was still contemplating her new relationship; this modified version of love.

_When I think about love…what I want from a person, it’s not complicated. It’s not even all that romantic. I just want someone to grow old with. Someone to sit on the porch with. Hold hands with. Listen to the birds._

Blanche was unusually quiet. _That sounds romantic to me._

 _When we were kids we thought_   _love was sweaty palms and fumbled kissing. A fire in the belly; a softness around the eyes. But I think love is reaching over in the middle of the night and finding home. It’s the simple things. Like, do you make me laugh? And how do I feel when you hold me? Can we cry together? Can we grow together?_ Dorothy twiddled with the phone cord; felt a perplexing churn in the pit of her stomach. _Listen to me, prattling on about love like I’m Dear Abby._

Blanche’s voice was whisper soft. _No, it’s fine. What you’re saying makes perfect sense._

They were both silent for long moments. Lost in their own thoughts; ears primed to the other’s breathing.

_What about you Blanche? I worry for you if the closest thing you have to a satisfying date is with Stanley._

_Oh, he wasn’t that bad. He and I have been out before. You know that._

Dorothy nodded. She remembered. Years ago she’d begged Blanche to go out on a date with a depressed Stan so that she could keep her own date with a commodore. She’d been shocked when Blanche and Stan had actually enjoyed themselves. Had been shocked and insanely jealous. It had felt like Blanche was intruding on the special memories she’d cultivated with Stan.

Dorothy shifted in her seat; cleared her throat unnecessarily. Now that she thought about it…

She’d been irrationally jealous at Blanche’s and Stan’s bourgeoning friendship. So much so that she’d shouted at Blanche in the supermarket; embarrassed herself in front of a crowd of people. Had she been angry that Blanche was interfering with her bond with her ex-husband or upset that Stan was intruding on her relationship with Blanche?

_Did you hear what I said Dorothy?_

_Hmm?_

_I said we mostly just talked about you. And the crab was delicious. I think I’ll get Mel Bushman to take me back to that restaurant. He can afford it._

_So you’re still seeing Mel?_ Why was her tone so sour? Dorothy coughed again. Tried to affect a more congenial tone.

 _Yes, of course. The man is practically infatuated with me. You know how many proposals I’ve turned down from him?_ Blanche sighed dramatically. _I’ve broken more hearts than Elizabeth Taylor. And I’ve aged a lot better._

They giggled again and Dorothy scooted back into the settee. The couch seemed much more comfortable when she had a good friend on the phone with her.

 _So how’s everything been at home?_ Dorothy asked.

_Oh, the usual. I have to keep Rose from bringing puppies home and I have to keep Sophia from setting fires. I’m only successful at one of those things. I’ll let you guess which one._

_I never told you thank you, you know._

Blanche perked up at the prospect of praise. _For what?_

_For looking out for Ma. She preferred to stay in Miami rather than move all the way to Georgia. She wouldn’t have been able to if you hadn’t agreed. Thank you for that._

_You know Sophia is like a mother to me Dorothy. I’d do anything for her._ Her voice got whisper soft again. _I’d do anything for **you**._

The moment was big. Dorothy nearly choked on the emotion she felt flare up in her chest.

 _Blanche?_ She asked weakly.

_Yes?_

_What was it you had to tell me?_

She could hear Blanche fiddling with something in the background. The woman knew how to avoid a pointed question. There was another dramatic sigh and then that perfect, accent-flecked voice continued.

_You remember Jake? The caterer I dated a couple of years back?_

_The one with the chest of an Olympic god?_

_Yes, that one. Remember what I said after he and I broke up?_

_Not exactly. I remember you were really upset. You cried._ _We ate a lot of cheesecake._

 _I said that I felt like an old fool. Sitting up all night with a broken heart. That’s what I said when Jake left me._ Blanche’s voice hitched. She sounded like she was on the verge of tears. _Well…that’s how I feel now. I feel like an old fool. I’ve been sitting up for seven days…crying and carrying on. Nursing a broken heart. ‘Cause you left me._

Dorothy nearly dropped the phone. The only reason she didn’t was because her entire body froze at Blanche’s words.

 _You still there Dorothy?_ When Dorothy didn’t answer, Blanche rushed on, her voice strained and apologetic. _Now I don’t want you to hate me. I know you’re happily married and I would never come between that. You deserve to be happy and Uncle Lucas is the best there is. Besides…_ she laughed weakly then. _Neither **one** of us are…you know…that way. I think I’m just feeling a little out of sorts because you left so suddenly, and I haven’t been dating as regularly as I should. My emotions are all over the place. _ Another insincere chuckle. _Dorothy? Dorothy…?_

Dorothy managed to find her voice. She opened her eyes. She wasn’t sure when she’d closed them.

_Your heart is broken? Because I left?_

_Forget I said anything Dorothy._

_I can’t._ Dorothy stared at the overly ornate front door. Squirmed against the scratchy fabric of the love seat. _Are you really heartbroken?_ She asked softly.

Blanche exhaled. And the answer was already there in the unsteady way she breathed. But she answered anyway. _I’ve been waiting for you to come home. Waiting ever since the day you left._

Dorothy dropped her head. Cried into the palm of her hand; splashed hot tears against the smooth surface of her wedding ring.

 _Come home Dorothy._  Blanche demanded softly.  _I know it’s not fair to ask you, but I want you to come home._

Blanche disconnected the call before Dorothy could answer.

When Weems swept into the room an hour later, he found Dorothy still sitting there, holding the pearl handled telephone and twisting her wedding band around her finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used some actual dialogue from the show to make things even more realistic. Dorothy's comments about sitting on the porch and holding hands was something she said in one episode. And Blanche's comments about Jake are also from the show.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorothy makes an important decision.

 

Dorothy made her way into her new bedroom; settled into the wingback chair in front of the large bay window. A soft rain had begun to fall during the evening and shimmering droplets of wet splashed against the oversized window; staining it; resembling tears.

The retired teacher folded her arms across her chest; stared into the deluge; and began to hum beneath her breath.

_What’ll I do…when you…are far away…and I am blue…what’ll I do?_

A song she’d perfected when she was a young mother, cradling her children to sleep. A song she’d sang at Blanche’s favorite bar, the Rusty Anchor.

Her impromptu performance had been well-received by the male patrons at the bar, and Blanche had become jealous and snippy. The two of them had argued in the women’s restroom. Blanche crabby and inconsolable and Dorothy confounded by her roommate’s outburst.

After a strained silence, Blanche had finally admitted her jealousy. Had grudgingly complimented Dorothy; her brown eyes wide and wet as she stared up at her friend:

_Dorothy, when you sing, you just light up a room. You do. You’re beautiful._

Even now the words warmed Dorothy.

She ran long fingers across her forearm, stilling the goosebumps that had erupted along her skin.

To think that Blanche not only thought she was beautiful but actually loved her. _Missed_ her. It was enough to make the usually composed teacher dissolve into hysterics.

 _I’m a newlywed_ , she thought to herself. Her hands trembling against her abdomen. _And the man I’ve married is wonderful. **Perfect**. There’s no way I can walk away from the best relationship I’ve ever had._

She recalled Blanche’s voice on the phone. How anxious her former roommate had sounded. How needful.

 _Come home Dorothy_ , Blanche had entreated.

The school teacher watched as the sun peeked out from behind bulbous clouds; as sparkling rays of yellow and gold absorbed the drops of rain that covered her window.

 _I **am** home_ , Dorothy decided.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Blanche was fluffing a pillow on her living room couch when the doorbell rang. The pretty brunette had never been much of a housekeeper—she usually left the grunt work to Rose or would sweet talk Dorothy into doing her chores for her—but with Rose consistently busy with work and Dorothy no longer around, Blanche had been forced to take on the lion’s share of domestic duties at the Miami condo.

Blanche pouted as she strode to the front door. _All this house work is going to make me sweat._ _And southern belles **never** sweat. It’s unbecoming. _

She wrenched open the front door, preparing to scold whichever salesman or pamphleteer who'd decided to ring her doorbell so late.

But any admonishment she had died on her lips when she found Dorothy standing there. Dressed in one of her trademark cotton sweaters, carrying a heavy purse. There were more bags near Dorothy’s feet. Too many bags for someone intent on a short visit.

The schoolteacher gave Blanche a sheepish grin; ran a hand through her salt-and-pepper tresses.

 _I was going to use my key_ , Dorothy murmured. _But I didn’t think it would be appropriate._

Blanche was stunned by the woman’s unexpected arrival. But her genteel social upbringing quickly kicked in.

 _Come in!_ Blanche directed. Noticeably breathless _._ _Rose and Sophia are out at the moment, but they’ll be back soon. Boy, are they are going to be surprised to see you._

Blanche helped Dorothy drag the suitcases in. They left the luggage by the front door. Stood there for a moment near the entrance staring at each other.

Dorothy fidgeted; tugged at the hem of her sweater, needing something to do. A deep blush suffused Blanche’s skin, and the widow clutched at the extravagant silver chain adorning her neck.

 _Shall we sit?_ Dorothy finally asked. Breaking the awkward silence.

_Yes! Of course._

Blanche ushered Dorothy to the wicker couch. Seemed to hesitate for a moment. Not sure whether to sit beside Dorothy or claim the chair across from the woman.

She made her decision. Settled into the space beside Dorothy. Close enough for their shoulders to brush but not so close that she seemed untoward.

Blanche crossed her legs. Dorothy cleared her throat. The only sound, save their breathing, was the steady hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower. The occasional drone of a passing car.

 _I’ve really missed this couch_ , Dorothy commented uselessly.

_Oh really?_

_Yes. It has very comfortable cushions._

_That’s true._

They still hadn’t looked at each other. Their eyes flickered over everything _but_ the person sitting next to them.

But one of the women shifted closer, removing a few of the inches that separated them.

Or maybe it was both of them moving closer; erasing distance.

_So why are you here Dorothy? Did you come to check on Sophia? Or perhaps you heard that John Forsyth is making a guest appearance at the Burt Reynold’s Dinner Theater this weekend?_

Dorothy tugged on an earlobe. _No. That’s not it._

A charged silence. More breathing.

And just when Blanche began to suspect that Dorothy wouldn’t explain her sudden appearance:

_Do you remember when you left me that message?  When we spoke on the phone and you said...what you said?_

Blanche sighed _. That was three months ago Dorothy. You can’t expect a girl to remember details from that long ago._

Blanche’s voice was accusatory and Dorothy nodded slowly. Accepting the barely-concealed blame.

So much time had passed since that fateful phone call. A quarter of a year. It had taken a considerable amount of courage (and hope) for Blanche to make that phone call. To admit she loved Dorothy and ask her to return to Miami. Dorothy had repaid that courage by ignoring Blanche for three months.

She kept up with Blanche, of course, by way of her weekly telephone calls with Rose and Sophia. She wrote short letters to her friend. Sent a cutesy birthday gift. But she never phoned Blanche directly. And she neglected to return the calls the brunette made to her.

Three months of intentional silence as she tried to keep her floundering marriage afloat. As she tried to supplant the images of a dazzling brunette; a silky voice; a throaty laugh that made even her deepest-seeded insecurities melt away.

 _I’m sorry that I haven’t kept in touch_ , Dorothy said. And she wanted to touch Blanche’s hand—to better communicate her remorse—but she was afraid to; worried that her gesture would be rebuffed.

_No need to apologize Dorothy. You have a new life. You've moved on. No one can blame you for that._

Blanche was being purposefully dismissive. They both knew it. Blanche handled rejection poorly. She always had. It’s why she’d danced on top of a piano when she thought her male companions at the Rusty Anchor preferred Dorothy over her. It’s why she had an emotional meltdown in front of Dorothy and Sophia when she thought Dorothy’s lesbian friend, Jeanne, preferred Rose over her.

It’s why she was near tears now—her fingernails digging into her own skin—because she’d thought, for three months now, that Dorothy preferred _Lucas_ over her.

Blanche had revealed her heart to Dorothy—( _Come home Dorothy_ )—and, in turn, Dorothy had broken it.

Blanche used trembling fingers to surreptitiously swipe at tears that were threatening to break free. She cleared her throat and rose to her feet. Turned her back on Dorothy.

_Rose and Sophia will be home any minute. I’ll leave you to wait on them. I have some ironing that requires my attention._

Dorothy didn’t let her get very far. The retired teacher didn’t leave her position on the couch, but her voice was commanding. World-weary and morose but forceful enough to make Blanche stop in her tracks.

_Don’t you want to know why I’m here Blanche?_

Blanche tilted her head but didn’t turn around. _You’re here to see your mother._

_Yes. But that’s not the primary reason._

_Rose probably begged you to come back and attend the Christmas pageant she’s hosting next week. She rebooted a Christmas play. Three Wise Mice._

_Yes, she asked me to attend. But that’s not the reason either._

Blanche put a hand against her abdomen. Reminded herself to breathe. _Probably something to do with Stan then._

_No._

Dorothy finally rose from the sofa. Walked forward until she was pressed against Blanche’s back. The smaller woman trembled in front of her. Her breath leaving her body in a staccatoed rush.

 _I’m an old fool_ , Dorothy whispered. Her warm tufts of breath brushing against Blanche’s neck, causing the brunette to shiver. _Carrying around a broken heart for three months when I could have been home. When I could have been with you._

Blanche whirled around. Her auburn eyes wide and hopeful. A hint of tongue appearing between her teeth. The brunette was too stunned to speak.

Dorothy continued. _I’m sorry that it took me so long. I was afraid._ Dorothy put a single finger against Blanche’s cheek. Caught the tear that had managed to escape from her friend’s eyes. _Blanche Devereaux_ , _you’re my best friend. And even if we decide not to be anything else to each other, I’m just happy to be back home. To be with you._ Dorothy’s eyes shone with sincerity; gleamed from her own bourgeoning tears.

Blanche inhaled sharply. Then chuckled softly. A short burst of relieved laughter. She pressed trembling hands against Dorothy’s face.

_You talk too much, Dorothy._

Blanche kissed her. A soft kiss. Almost chaste. And brief. Because this was new for both of them. Kissing another woman. Kissing each other.

They both smiled through the initial discomfort. Pulled back to exchange shy glances; to communicate a sweet consent to continue.

The next time their lips brushed, it was more explosive. And Blanche’s tongue made another appearance.

Somewhere between the soft meeting of lips, Blanche told Dorothy she loved her. Dorothy wept her own confession into the brunette’s neck.

Blanche tugged Dorothy back onto the couch, and the two women held hands as they exchanged soft words; perfected their kissing.

And that was how Rose and Sophia found them some half hour later. Curled around each other. Cuddling. Content.

Rose fainted. Sophia cackled.

And Blanche kissed Dorothy on the cheek. 

_Welcome home._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this was a satisfying end to this story. There was a GG marathon on recently and they showed the episode "Journey to the Center of Attention" where Dorothy sings and Blanche throws a tantrum and tearfully compliments Dorothy. The episode inspired me to finish this fic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


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